


Lips With a Whiskey Chaser

by watchcatewrite



Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Drinking & Talking, F/M, Finger Sucking, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 08:35:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28579095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchcatewrite/pseuds/watchcatewrite
Summary: There’s a part of you that knows that heading to a bar, to drink alone, is a bad sign. But there’s a larger part of you, a louder part even, that says it can’t be as bad as drinking in your apartment alone.Or at least, that’s the justification you give yourself.
Relationships: Francisco "Catfish" Morales/Reader, Francisco "Catfish" Morales/You
Comments: 17
Kudos: 87





	Lips With a Whiskey Chaser

There’s a part of you that knows that heading to a bar, to drink alone, is a bad sign. But there’s a larger part of you, a louder part even, that says it can’t be as bad as drinking in your _apartment_ alone. 

Or at least, that’s the justification you give yourself. 

After being puked on, screamed at, and humiliated in front of the 21 year old baby nurse you’d been mentoring (who, you were sure, was now considering a change of major) the last thing you wanted was anyone to talk to you. And the _first_ thing you wanted was a drink. Sure, a bar was good for one of those things, but you weren’t so sure it was good for the other. Still, with your mother’s voice in your head, reminding you that only alcoholics drink alone in their homes, you didn’t see another option. 

(You weren’t entirely sure she was correct on that, but it seemed like an unimportant issue to argue. Not when there was a perfectly good bar a block from your apartment.)

As you shoved open the heavy door, and were hit by an overwhelming smell of cigarette smoke, you considered that maybe “perfectly good” was being generous. “A hole,” might be more apt. The bar is dim, it’s walls covered in neon signs for various types of alcohol that look like they haven’t been dusted in years. The patrons are a motley crew, the exact type of people you’d expect to be drinking at 6:00 pm on a Tuesday, and you do your best to avoid anyone’s eyes. Just one drink, just to take the edge off, and then you’re out of here. Back to your warm shower, back to your soft bed, back to blissful unconsciousness until you have to get up and do it all over again. 

Maybe with less puke tomorrow. 

“Can I get a Jack and Coke?” The bartender grunts and gives you a nod, as you slide onto one of the leather stools at the bar. Apparently words are too much of an effort. Honestly, you agree. 

“Seven dollars.” He reappears with a glass in his hand, and you slide a ten across the worn wood of the bar. 

“Keep the change.”

He nods again before disappearing, leaving you and Jack alone. The whiskey’s harsh on your tongue, and it tastes like bad decisions. You can’t remember a time you haven’t made some sort of a fuck up with whiskey in your system, but you’re too tired to do more than lift the glass to your lips, how can you possibly get in trouble this time? As a form appears at your right shoulder, sliding on to the seat next to you, you have to wonder if there really is a higher power out there, and if he’s listening to you tempt him like this. 

“Not to sound trite, but what is a girl like you doing in a bar like this?”

The voice is deep, melodic even, and you can’t help yourself: you turn to look. He seems young at first, but then you see the deep lines around his eyes, the way they seem to crinkle when he smiles at you. It’s a nice smile really, with soft, full lips and surrounded by a well maintained mustache. Some stubble dusts his jaw, but he’s otherwise seemingly put together. His eyes though. They’re dark and deep, and almost sad, an emotion that doesn’t match the smile on his face. Or the dimple in his cheek. 

“Girl’s gotta drink.” You lift the glass to your lips again, as if to illustrate your point, and turn to face the back of the bar. _Fuck off_ , clear in your posture. 

He watches you for a moment, and then a hand appears at your elbow. “I’m Catfish.”

Oh come on, how are you supposed to ignore that? “ _Catfish_?”

Your voice is incredulous, and his grin widens. “Yes, ma’am. Or Frankie, if we’re friendly.”

You snort, bringing the glass to your lips again. The whiskey burns. “Is that what you’re hoping for, _Catfish_? That we’ll be friendly? Cause that’s about the last thing I feel right now.”

“Bad day?” His voice sounds sincere, but that grin is still on his face. It makes you wanna smack him. 

“I just wanna drink in peace, dude. Can I do that?”

“Sure, sure.” He leans back, hands in the air, as if to assure you that he means no harm. His ass doesn’t move from the seat, however. 

After a few moments you turn in time to watch Frankie bring his own drink to his lips. Some kind of beer. You can just barely smell it, and it makes you want to gag worse than the whiskey. You can feel your nose wrinkling as the corners of your lips turn down. He seems to take note of your disapproving expression, gesturing to the beer. 

“Not a fan?”

You shake your head shortly. “Never liked the stuff.”

“Not even at a baseball game? In the summer? With a hotdog in your hand?”

It’s such a specific image, and just like that you’re thrown back to ball games with your little brother, both of you drunkenly singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” with your arms around each other's shoulders. There’s a pang in your chest, and you swallow tightly before answering. 

“Maybe.”

He seems to take this as encouragement, grinning again as he takes another sip of his beer. “Doesn’t like beer, does like baseball. You got a name, baseball fan?”

You shoot him a look, and Frankie seems to realize his luck is running low. His hands are back in the air again, ever the contritious gentleman. “Okay, you don’t gotta tell me. Just trying to be polite.”

The both of you lapse back into silence again, and with the quiet you can feel the warmth beginning to bloom in your stomach. It’s not enough to truly do anything, but it feels sort of like a bandaid. It doesn’t erase everything from your previous shift, but it makes it feel a little more far away. Just one more shift and then you’re off for a few days. Just twelve more hours. You’ve been saying that a lot lately, though you’ve tried hard not to notice. 

“One more question?”

That smile is back, and his eyes rest on yours. They seem warmer somehow, like milk chocolate instead of dark, and you worry the whiskey’s going to your head more than you think. You don’t answer, raising your eyebrows at him after a few seconds of silence, and Frankie seems to get the hint. 

“What do you do?”

You think for a moment, bringing the glass to your lips again. The Coke is sweet over the bite of the alcohol, the fizz making your lips tingle. How much do you truly want this strange man, in this strange bar, to know? You consider lying for a moment, just for the fun of it, but the idea of having to maintain a lie during a conversation that Frankie seems intent on having, sounds exhausting. No, the truth is easier. But just a kernel of it. 

“I clean up other people’s messes.”

Your eyes stay trained on the back of the bar for a moment, but when you finally turn to face Frankie you watch as his face splits in a grin. He snorts, breaking into a chuckle, and you just can’t help yourself. The corners of your lips tip up in a mirroring smile, and that warm feeling in your belly seems to radiate down your thighs. Frankie shakes his head, taking a long sip of his beer, before replying. 

“Don’t we all, baby.”

You think about protesting at the pet name, but Frankie’s already turning from you, gesturing down to the bartender, and you know it’s useless. So much for not talking to anyone. 

\- - -

An hour later the empty glasses in front of you have multiplied by three. Frankie’s already somehow convinced you to try his beer—“you might like it!”—laughing at your accompanying grimace, and has unsuccessfully tried to convince you to do some tequila shots with him. You blame your bad experiences with tequila (has anyone ever had a _good_ experience with tequila?) but really you’re doing your best to hold on to your wits. Frankie is charming, and surprisingly funny, and you find yourself warming to him more than you thought you would. The “fuck you” in your posture is completely gone, and your and Frankie’s knees occasionally knock together where they’re angled toward each other under the bar. 

“No, tell me that’s a joke.” Frankie’s eyes are wide at your latest anecdote, the lip of his glass suspended in front of his mouth. 

“I shit you not. The guy’s standing there, ass out, with his catheter in his hand, proudly proclaiming that he ‘took care of it’ but ‘thanks darlin’.”

Frankie chokes on his mouthful of beer, your lubricated tongue making your poor impression of a southern accent all the more comical. You watch as he claps a hand over his face, trying to prevent him expelling the beer from either his mouth or his nose. You can’t help it, you burst out laughing, louder than is probably acceptable even in the disreputable bar. Frankie grunts as you give his back a few quick slaps, finally swallowing the liquid he’d been struggling to make heads or tails of. He sucks in a breath afterwards, letting out a loud laugh, and you grin at him. 

“Believe me, he wasn’t calling me ‘darlin’ when I had to go put it back in.”

Frankie grimaces, holding up a hand. “Please, god, I do not want to think about things being shoved up dicks right now.”

This time it’s your turn to snort, taking another sip of your drink before you answer. “Pussy.”

He stops and stares at you for a moment, in a way that makes you think you’ve fucked up somehow. But then suddenly his face is splitting in a grin again, and he’s snorting into his beer, and it sends you both into another round of laughter. You can feel the warmth of the whiskey in your whole body now, the way it makes your tired limbs feel even heavier. You’re pretty sure you could put your head down on the bar right now and fall completely asleep, despite your surroundings. Instead you reach for the glass of water you asked for a drink ago, downing the remainder of its contents. It’s not enough, and you gesture to the bartender for a refill. 

Frankie watches you as the bartender fills your glass, watches as you down it all in one go, and then gesture for another refill. The bartender looks almost annoyed but you’re starting to get the feeling that’s how he looks at everyone. And it’s not like there’s many patrons vying for his attention at this point. Frankie’s knee knocks against yours under the bar again, and you glance over at him. He’s still grinning and you realize how much you’ve come to like that grin over the last hour. His face has gotten ruddier, his eyes even warmer, and you find that you like looking at him. You’re trying to remember why you were so intent on suffering in silence an hour ago. 

“What about you? You said you were in the military, right _Catfish_?” He smiles at the emphasis. “Any wild stories?”

“None that I can tell you.”

“Oh what, or you’d have to kill me?” It’s clearly a joke but Frankie peers at you seriously. 

“Maybe.”

You laugh again and he follows you, before taking another sip of his beer. 

“Nah, just. Sometimes it’s hard to remember the good shit.”

It’s surprisingly earnest, after an hour of flirty banter and constant jokes. It takes you by surprise, and the glass pauses at your lips. You lower it slowly, still watching him, and Frankie swirls his beer around in his glass before taking another gulp. His eyes had been sad when he’d first saddled up to you, you’d been sure of it, and here was more of the evidence. You weren’t sure it was your place to ask, to pry. As much as he might joke about “if I told you, I’d have to kill you,” Frankie seemed genuinely uninterested in sharing his past, other than the occasional reference to the other guys in his unit, who he was clearly still close with. He doesn’t give you the chance to respond, a grin sliding across his face again, and it’s like the moment never happened. 

“So, you usually this flirty with guys in bars or should I be flattered?”

You roll your eyes. “Who says I’m being flirty?”

Frankie glances under the bar at your collective knees, before he meets your eyes again. “Your knees that keep bumping into mine. You got something you wanna say?”

You shoot him another look but his grin only widens, watching appreciatively as you finish the last of your drink. “No, I do not, _Catfish_. You’re the one who came over here and bothered me during what was supposed to be my one, after-work drink. I’m just being friendly.”

This is clearly the wrong thing to say, as Frankie’s eyes light up immediately. “I thought you weren’t interested in being friendly.”

You’re obviously caught, and your cheeks burn in a blush. Frankie chuckles at the sight, but the teasing you’re expecting doesn’t come. Instead he finishes the last of his drink as well, turning on his stool until he’s facing you more fully, one arm resting on the bar while his other fist rests against his hip. You both stare at each other silently, and you’re almost embarrassed to feel a heat growing between your legs. It’s not the whiskey this time, though you wish it was. _That_ you knew what to do with, _this_ was uncharted territory. Were you the type of person to pick up a strange man in a bar at 7:30 on a Tuesday night? It was starting to look that way. 

Frankie leans in closer, not close enough to make you think he’s going in for a kiss, but close enough that your breath catches in your throat. He smells absolutely divine: warm, musky, and spicy. It’s a welcome respite from the smoky, stale smell of the bar. You catch yourself wondering what his hair would look like mussed from your hands, what his skin would taste like on your tongue. You shiver and Frankie notices immediately, the goofy grin gone and replaced with something decidedly more coy. His pupils are large and dark, almost drowning out the warm brown of his eyes. He seems hungry when he looks you over, and it sends a throb through the center of your body. 

“We could be real friendly.” His voice is almost a whisper, caressing your skin and making you shiver again. “Back at my place, or right here.”

Part of you recoils at the suggestion, only imagining how unkempt the bathrooms must be if this, the main focal point of the bar, looks barely maintained. But a deeper part of you, the part that you tried hard not to listen to, sent another throb through your body, and you sucked in a breath. Frankie seemed absolutely delighted at your response, his impossibly dark eyes somehow growing even darker, and you fought the shudder that threatened to wrack your entire body. He leaned closer again, his face near enough to yours that you would barely have to lean to taste the stubble on his jaw, and his lips brushed your ear. 

“Is that what you want, baby? Want me to fuck this bad day away for you, right here and now?”

It’s probably a bad idea. Just like setting foot in this bar was, but _god_ do you want it. You want it so badly you’re not sure you could stand right now on your shaky legs, not sure you could take a deep breath if you tried. Your eyes close and your teeth bite into your bottom lip. Frankie doesn’t move as he listens to your sharp inhale, his lips still ghosting over the shell of your ear. You can just barely feel his mustache tickling at the sensitive skin, and you wanna know what it feels like to have those lips on yours. You want it more than you can put into words. 

“Tell me what you want, _mi belleza_ , and I’ll make it happen.”

Finally he leans back, and when your eyes meet his you can’t think of a good reason not to say the words that come out of your mouth next. 

“I want you to meet me in the bathroom in 60 seconds.”

Frankie smiles but doesn’t move an inch, watching as you rise from your stool and head toward the bathroom. You can feel his eyes on you as you push the door open, but you don’t dare look back. You feel almost like a caged animal, desperate to run, but it would be right back into his arms. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror as the door closes behind you. Your cheeks are flushed, your pupils blown, but you’re recognizably you. You want this: want to feel good for just a small part of this day, want to feel Frankie’s hands all over you. You almost tremble with the intensity of it. A moment’s all you get, before the door is opening behind you, and Frankie’s body is crowding against yours. 

He takes hold of your hips tightly, spinning you around until you’re facing him, heart catching in your throat. He looks you over for a moment, as if for a protest or a change of mind, but when it becomes obvious neither are coming, that familiar grin slides over his face. Your hands go to his cheeks, the stubble there surprisingly soft, as you angle his face downward and to your lips. He’s already walking the two of you back toward the large stall at the end of the row by the time his lips meet yours, and you groan at the press of him against you, already hard and ready. 

He tastes slightly of beer, that terrible one he’d convinced you to try, with the bite of mint underneath. You’d been watching him chew gum all night, the way his jaw never seemed to stay still. You’d imagined the sharp sturdiness of it pressed between your legs, and was suddenly consumed again by the image. You broke the kiss, trying to get a breath of air, and Frankie mouthed along your jaw and neck, worrying the thin skin of your collarbone. Fuck, you wanted that mouth on you so badly. Your back hit cool tile, and a bang rang out as Frankie kicked the stall door closed behind you. The logical part of your brain worried about it remaining unlocked, but it was quickly replaced by the blistering need that burned through your body. 

“ _Frankie_.” The word is breathless, his lips sucking gently at your throat as you clutch the back of his neck. 

“Tell me what you want baby, just tell me what you want.”

“I want your mouth on me. _Please_.” It’s a gasp, a moan, and a plea all at once. 

Frankie doesn’t hesitate, dropping to his knees and reaching for the zipper of your jeans. His fingers move surprisingly deftly, despite the alcohol you’ve both consumed, and the reminder— _military_ —is fleeting. You bury your right hand in his hair, the other gripping his shoulder, as you try to steady yourself. Frankie yanks your hips forward as he pulls at the buttons, sliding the jeans down over your ass once they’re open. He keeps your hips angled toward him, leaning down to press a kiss into the front of your simple, cotton underwear. 

“Fucking _perfect_.” He mutters to himself, before drawing them down with both index fingers. 

You have a moment to gasp at the cool air where you’re already wet and aching, before you’re enveloped by his warm, soft mouth. Your breath catches in your throat, your hand tightening in those soft brown curls, as Frankie’s lips seal around your clit. He sucks gently, almost experimentally, and you let out a cry. You can feel the way his lips curl in a smile against you, and then his tongue is bathing your clit in attention. It makes you gasp again, hips bucking up into his mouth, and it’s so much all at once. There’s stars behind your eyes when you clench them tightly, your nails digging into the skin of his shoulder beneath his well-worn flannel shirt. 

“Shit, Frankie.” Your head lolls back against the wall, tile blessedly cool against your burning skin. “Fuck, slow down.”

He leans back immediately, and you can see your own shine on his chin when you glance down at him. “What, what is it?”

“It’s too much. Just—just go slower.”

Frankie nods like he hears you, but when his mouth returns to your clit it’s just as insistent. His lips leave the bundle of nerves just long enough for him to suck one of your labia into his mouth gently, following its release with long strokes of his tongue. You groan, hand a vice in his hair, and Frankie only increases his pace. It leaves you desperate and throbbing, your chest feeling tight. You’re already on the edge, chasing what you know is just out of reach, and you can barely hold back. 

“Just slow down. Slow down, Frankie.” Your words are breathy, but more forceful this time. 

Frankie’s mouth is suddenly gone, and you lurch forward with a gasp. When you look down he’s resting back on his heels, swiping the back of his hand over his mouth. “What’s the deal?”

“I just want you to slow down.” You’re too out of breath to put any force behind your words, confusion clear on your face. 

“Do you want me to eat you out or not?” His tone is accusatory and your eyes narrow. You’re suddenly done with the whole thing. 

Your hands reach for your jeans, anger coursing through your veins. “Not if you’re gonna be a _dick._ Jesus dude, what’s your problem?”

His hand reaches out for yours, stopping you. “It’s just a quick fuck in the bathroom, why are you—“

“Sorry I wanted to enjoy it, asshole.” You shove his hand away, beginning to pull your pants up over your still quivering thighs. “Fuck you.”

“No wait, just—“ His voice is thick, and you stop. “Just wait. Please. I don’t wanna, I don’t wanna fucking think, I—“

Frankie glances around down at the floor like he’s looking for the words he’s trying to say. Your brow furrows, your anger momentarily forgotten. 

“Just let me make you feel good, please. I just—“ He looks back up at you, and you’re shocked to see tears at the corners of his eyes. “I just wanna be good for fucking something, please.”

“ _Frankie_.” It’s a whisper, your hands coming up to cup his cheeks. 

“Just, please. Tell me what you want and I’ll do it, okay? I will, I’m sorry, just—just tell me what you want.”

You pull him to you gently, wrapping your arms around the back of his neck until he’s flush against you. His head rests against your stomach, and you can feel the stubble on his jaw through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. You reach up a hand to stroke his hair gently, and Frankie takes in a deep, shuddering breath, his body shaking. The tears you saw in his eyes don’t fall, but he doesn’t move from your arms, his hands fisting in the back of your shirt. He takes breath after breath, until all you can hear is it echoing between the empty, white walls. He doesn’t say anything, and after a few quiet minutes you slowly draw him to his feet. 

Before he can back away, or make some kind of joke (as you can already tell he’s prone to do), you draw him back into you, wrapping your arms around him. He follows your lead, his arms coming around your neck, pulling you tightly against him. His breathing sounds more even now, but it’s clear the moment is over. You’re suddenly very aware that your pants and underwear are down around your thighs, though Frankie’s warm body keeps you covered. He’s sturdy against you, and you can feel his cheek against your forehead as each exhale tickles your hair. You’ve gotta get him out of this shitty bar. 

“Hey, you like cold Chinese food?”

\- - -

Frankie looks strangely at home in your apartment. His worn flannel and old hat match the hideous afghan your mother had made for you one Christmas, draped over the back of your “vintage” couch. His cheeks look less flushed now, as he nurses the glass of water you’d pressed into his hand upon your arrival. When you glance around the doorframe from the kitchen you can see him moving aimlessly around the living room, leaning in to peer at some of the things hung up on the wall. You see him spot the picture of you and your brother on his 21st birthday and brace for what’s no doubt coming. You try to change the subject before it’s even broached. 

“Chow mein or beef and broccoli?” The takeout containers are open on the counter in front of you, both half full. They’re only two days old at the most, perfectly acceptable for your slightly pickled stomachs. 

“Beef and broccoli. I haven’t eaten anything green today.” The humor is back in his voice, but the reply is quieter than back in the bar. 

You join him in the living room, holding out the container to him. Frankie takes it quietly, giving you a small nod, but finds his hands too full to eat. He glances between the water and the takeout container comically, swallowing the water in one gulp before setting the glass down on the coffee table. You notice he makes sure it’s on top of a coaster, and not the wooden tabletop. It makes you smile for some reason. His first bite is cautious, but after that proves acceptable Frankie nearly employs his fork as a shovel, moving the food into his mouth faster than you think he can chew. You snort, twisting noodles around your own fork. 

“Don’t choke, Catfish. I’m off for the night.”

It’s the first time you’ve used the nickname without the accompanying sarcasm, and it’s enough to cause Frankie to pause. He swallows thickly, a grin on his face, before returning to his food at a more reasonable pace. You both say nothing while you eat, watching each other off and on, or glancing around the room, in Frankie’s case. He gestures at the apartment with his, thankfully empty, fork. 

“You live here alone?”

“You gonna murder me if I say yes?”

He smiles broadly, shaking his head and swallowing his previous bite before replying. “No, ma’am.”

“Then yeah, it’s just me.” You glance around the apartment, your little sanctuary. “My hours are too weird for a dog, and I’m allergic to cats, so.”

You pause for a moment before continuing. 

“Roommates too.” This sends him laughing again, and you realize what a welcome sound it’s become. “What about you?”

He nods, swallowing again, and you realize the carton is nearly empty. “That wasn’t just a line, I really do live nearby. Four blocks east.”

You peer at him through narrowed eyes. “East?”

He laughs again, pointing over your shoulder and through the window at the back of the apartment. “That way.”

You nod like you understand and he snorts a laugh as you speak. “Well, nice to meet you neighbor.”

“And sorry I almost cried into your vagina.” His tone matches yours perfectly, like it’s the second half of some common saying, and you choke on the noodles in your mouth. 

Frankie laughs, this time being the one to give _you_ a few rough slaps on the back, before you finally force down the food. You reach out a hand to smack his arm playfully but he spins out of the way, still laughing. You like this Frankie far more than the one back at the bar, but you haven’t forgotten him. The way his hands tightened in your t-shirt as he pressed his cheek to your stomach, like you were a shell he’d found on the beach and he could hear the ocean. Maybe he’d been hoping to hear your heartbeat in his ear, instead of his own. You glance up at him, when you can finally catch your breath, and before you can ask he’s already offering. 

“I lost a friend, recently. Guy I served with. It— it fucked me up, in more ways than one and, I dunno. I didn’t go to that bar looking for someone but I just…”

“Didn’t wanna think for a while?” You supply, your tone hardly accusatory. 

“Yeah.” He lets out a breath. “I don’t always have the best ways of coping with shit, though almost crying on an almost hookup is better than what I used to do.”

You tip your head to the side inquisitively, your fork pausing in front of your lips. “Which was…?”

“Coke.” Frankie says the word easily and you almost take it as a joke before he continues. “Been sober six months. And some change.”

You bring the bite to your lips, taking time to chew and think over your response. This is becoming less and less of a casual hookup. “That’s really great, Frankie. Congrats.”

Your eyes are drawn to the picture on the wall: you and your younger brother, party hats askew and drinks in your hands. Frankie follows your gaze but says nothing, waiting for you to offer, just like he did. 

“My little brother died last year. Drunk driving accident. Big sisters are supposed to see these things but— I was always too busy, y’know? The hospital always came first and I— I didn’t realize.” Frankie’s eyes are sad when he meets yours, and it feels like a fist around your heart. “I miss him.”

You’re both quiet for a few minutes, both staring down into your takeout cartons as you chew. Frankie finishes first, moving the empty cardboard between his hands like he doesn’t know what to do with it. You meet his eyes as you reach out for it slowly, taking it from his hands, and he smiles at you kindly. You can feel him watching you as you turn back to the kitchen, but it feels different than in the bar. You don’t wanna run, you just want to keep this comfortable silence between the two of you, want to hear his quiet breaths in the growing darkness. 

You drop the cartons into the trash, running the forks under the faucet before you place them into the dishwasher. When you close the dishwasher door you catch sight of something in the corner of your eye, and when you look up Frankie’s standing in the doorway. There’s no hunger in his eyes this time, but as he looks you over you feel that need again, pulsing through your whole body. He doesn’t crowd you like before, doesn’t push, just slowly gets closer and closer until all you can smell is him, all you can _see_ is him. His hands cup your cheeks gently, and he lifts your head until your eyes meet his. 

“I promise I won’t cry this time.” His voice is a whisper, and then his lips are on yours. 

\- - -

Your head feels like it could float away like a balloon, if it wasn’t firmly attached to your shoulders. Frankie’s lips are at your throat, worrying the skin at the juncture of your collarbone in a way that you know will leave marks. Your hands are in his hair again, grasping and twisting amongst the curls that were hidden beneath his hat. Your eyes are closed and you can just see those familiar stars beginning to burst, like fireworks on the Fourth of July, as Frankie purposefully grinds himself against you. He’s already hard again and the feeling of desire that washes over you makes you dizzy. His hands slide from your back and under your ass, suddenly hefting you off the ground and over his hips. 

“Where’s the bedroom?” His lips leave your skin long enough for him to see where you’re pointing over his shoulder, and then his face is between your hands, bringing those lips back to yours. 

His tongue slips between your teeth as he carries you easily into the bedroom, the swirling motion it makes leaving you relieved he’s carrying you. You’re not sure you could have made it to the room on your own two legs. When he sets you down on the edge of the bed he drops to his knees again between your legs. Your hands are desperate at the hem of his shirt, yanking it up over his head. Warm, tan skin lies underneath, dusted with soft dark hair. You run your fingers through it as you lean forward to kiss his chest gently. Frankie lets out a little groan as your lips seal around his nipple, his hands already familiar with the fastenings on your jeans. 

“Please, Frankie.” You breathe his name like it’s oxygen, like it’s all you need to survive, and he almost whimpers in response. 

Your jeans discarded on the floor he reaches for your shirt, pulling away just long enough to snatch it over your head. His hands slip under the cups of your bra, warm and gentle over your breasts as his lips meet yours again. The bra follows your shirt, up and over your head to join it on the floor with your pants. 

“Please, Frankie. I want—“

“What do you want, _cariño_?”

“I want you.”

Your lips meet again as Frankie leans back until you’re laying against the bed, his body held up by his hands at either side of your head. He drops to his elbows, one hand burying itself in your hair, as the other slides down over your stomach and beneath the edge of your underwear. You gasp as two fingers graze your clit, sliding between your lips where you’re already wet and ready again. They slip inside of you easily, and you toss your head back with a cry, Frankie seizing the opportunity to bring his mouth to your jaw. His fingers are thick, warm, and you begin to feel that feeling of fullness you’ve been craving, but it’s not enough. Frankie moves his fingers inside of you, searching for that perfect spot, and you let out another little cry when he finds it. 

“Please, Frankie.”

“Anything you want, baby.”

His fingers work expertly inside you, as his thumb moves over your clit again. The only sounds you can manage after that are mewling cries, sucking in a breath every time his fingers find that spot inside of you. You feel boneless, absolutely aching for it, and you know your fingernails are leaving marks where your hands scrabble for purchase on his back. Frankie seems in no hurry this time, his lips moving from your skin to your mouth, swallowing every cry you gift him with. Against your leg is the hard reminder of how much he wants you, waiting patiently to draw pleasure from you until he’s given you your own. When his lips aren’t pressed to your skin he whispers words over it, English and Spanish caressing you like your lover’s hands. 

All of a sudden you’re there, standing on the edge, and your back arches with the strength of it. “Frankie, I—“

“Yes, baby. I wanna feel it, please. I wanna feel you come on my fingers.”

His lips graze your ear, and it’s the first time all night he’s wanted something for himself. You come with a cry, feeling him both inside you and around you, held by him. It wracks through you with a sob, and Frankie presses kisses into your skin, helping you through it. You turn your head until you can feel his stubbled cheek beneath your lips, breathing in the scent of him. When it’s over, your body floating in the afterglow, you watch him remove his fingers, bringing them to his lips and sucking gently. He hums, like it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever tasted, and you feel your whole body heat in a blush. With his fingers clean he reaches for your underwear, sliding them down your legs slowly. You’re completely bare before him, and you watch the color rise in his cheeks. 

“Fucking, _beautiful_.” You think to blush, but your skin is already flushed pink, and Frankie’s reaching for the button on his pants. 

He’s decidedly less careful with his own clothes, especially once you sit up on your elbows, watching him with a lazy grin on your face. His legs are toned, with the same warm tan over his chest, a little bit of a belly visible over the top of his boxer briefs. You lift yourself and lean forward until you can press a kiss over the hair leading down from his navel, your hands reaching for the elastic waistband. Frankie’s eyes are hooded as he watches you pull them down slowly, releasing his dick where it bobs gently through the air. It’s thicker even than his fingers, and you can’t help the shiver that rolls over your skin. 

Frankie’s hands reach for your face, angling your lips to meet his again, as he leans you back down onto the bed. 

“Condom?”

You tip your head up toward the bedside table and Frankie reaches over you to rifle around inside, leaning back with a small foil packet between his fingers. You watch him tear it open with his teeth, remembering that mouth between your thighs, and then as he rolls it over his cock. It’s suddenly all too slow, despite your earlier protests, and you’re aching again with need. You _need_ to feel him inside you, _need_ to feel full of him. Your hands reach for his hips and he smiles as you draw him closer. He stops just short of rubbing himself against you and you let out a little whine as his lips dip to your ear. 

“Tell me what you want, _cariño_. Tell me.”

“Please, Frankie.” You’re not ashamed to beg, you’re too far gone at this point. “Please, I just want you inside me. Please.”

“Whatever you want, baby.”

He slides into you with one, smooth motion, burying himself to the hilt. You let out a gasp, suddenly so full, and your back arches off the bed. He brushes your hair off your face gently, kissing along your jaw as you adjust, your breathing heavy. You think you could almost come just like this, he wouldn’t even have to move, but god do you want to feel him. Your hands tighten on his hips, your lip tight between your teeth, and Frankie gives a small, experimental roll of his hips. It’s overwhelming and perfect all at the same time, the way you stretch around him, the way he hits that spot inside of you perfectly. You want more, and there’s a whine in your voice that you can’t control. 

“ _Please_ , Frankie.”

At your insistence he rolls his hips again, letting out a groan as you clench around him. “Fuck, baby.”

His strokes are long and languid lighting a fire inside of you that threatens to burn you up completely. You whine and cry beneath him, every thrust more delicious than the last, and Frankie grips your hair tightly, baring you throat to him so he can suck more marks into your skin. You throw a leg around his hip, trying to draw him in deeper, harder and he lets out a growl above you. Finally his pace seems to increase, but only barely, and you curse yourself for being so insistent in the bathroom back at the bar. 

“Harder, please. You’re too—“ You gasp as his hips snap against yours. “You’re too slow.”

He chuckles against your throat, your skin vibrating with it, and you know that infernal grin is back on his face even though you can’t see it with your eyes clenched tightly. “I thought you wanted slow.”

“Fuck just—“ You grit out the words, your nails digging into his skin enough for Frankie to let out a light hiss. “Just fuck me, please.”

Frankie obeys, his hips beginning to move harder and faster against you. You can hear a dull thud each time you connect, the force of his thrusts inching you up the bed each time. It’s perfect, fucking perfect, and you can hardly breathe. You’re going to come again, and before you can think to wait or to warn him it rolls over you like a wave. Your body goes stiff beneath him, and Frankie lets out a groan like you’ve never heard. 

“Fuck, baby, you feel so good. Even—even better than around my fingers.”

You flash to an image of him sucking those fingers clean and it’s like an aftershock, making your back arch again, trying to get him closer, deeper. Frankie groans, burying his face in your neck, and his hips stutter. You can feel the way he tenses beneath your hands, muscles solid against your fingertips. His hips start to slow and you pull him tighter against you, feeling his teeth sink into the soft skin of your shoulder. You cry out again, overwhelmed in the best possible way, and Frankie sags against you. A hand reaches out to catch himself, but you can still feel him, solid and heavy against you. You both pant loudly, trying to catch your breath, and then Frankie’s tongue comes out to soothe the skin left tender from his teeth. 

Slowly he rolls to the side, drawing you with him but resting his body weight on the bed. You tighten your leg around his hip, keeping him inside you, and slip an arm up under his to grab at his shoulder. He places kisses up and down your jaw, over your cheeks and your closed eyes, until there’s not an inch of skin left untouched. You sigh and slowly open your eyes, drinking in the sight of him: cheeks flushed and eyes dark, his hair mussed from your hands. This time it’s your turn to whisper the word. 

“Beautiful.”

He grins, leaning forward to place a kiss on your lips and cups your cheek. “And you didn’t wanna get ‘friendly’ with me.”

You can’t help it, laughing gently with surprise, though your body feels too exhausted to think, and you try to smack him weakly. “I’ll have to call my mom and thank her.”

Frankie peers at you, confusion on his face, and you laugh again as he speaks. “Your mom?”

“For convincing me drinking alone at home was too sad.”

There’s a moment and then his face splits wide in a grin, his loud laugh filling the silence and warming your whole body better than a Jack and Coke ever could. 


End file.
